


satisfied

by VesperNexus



Series: that boy is mine [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23322349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: And yet, he’s across the room with the Baron’s wrist in his hand. He twists those filthy fingers fromhisboy’s cheek, twists that filthy touch fromhisboy’s body, twists and twists and twists until the Baron is on his knees, clawing at Washington’s hands, pleas and screams snatched hot and raw from his throat, tears gathering around his eyes.Washington twists and twists and once he breaks this wrist, the Baron will never touchhisboy again –“General Washington!”Oh Providence,he thinks, somewhere far in his mind,what have I done?Or, Hamilton is coveted, and Washington is possessive.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Series: that boy is mine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677175
Comments: 11
Kudos: 106





	satisfied

**Author's Note:**

> This ship is irresistible to me.  
> pls enjoy.  
> i should be studying but possessive washington is too much bloody fun to write.

Outside the little window, the sun wavers across the white line of the horizon, obstructed only by the silhouettes of reedy dry trees. The sky is a delicate pastiche of blues and purples, cotton white clouds pinned carelessly, thrown about with an easy breeze.

Washington keeps the forgiving scenery in the corner of his eye, tucked behind the subtle ache pounding against his temples, driven by the heavy baritone of Baron von Heim. His expression is schooled in rapt attention, perhaps the greatest skill he has even mastered as General. But even he is not perfect, and his eyes would have been heavy with sleep had it not been for the occasional obscure kick under the table.

Washington does _not_ look exasperated every time the point of a leather boot nudges his shin. He does _not_ narrow his eyes at Hamilton, sat upright with his shoulders squared in the picture of perfect attendance and propriety. He does _not_ recite a lecture of the impossibility – the _untameability_ – of his impossible, impossible boy who finds it appropriate to kick his General to attention like a schoolboy in a classroom.

In fact, he does not look at Hamilton _at all_ , because Washington knows there’s delicate lock of hair curled by his cheek he will be too tempted to tuck behind his ear. He knows there’s a little crease at the corner of the parchment on which Hamilton fervently scrawls he will be tempted to smooth, he knows there is strain coiled around those thin delightful fingers he will be tempted to kiss away. And Hamilton, of course, will let him. With a triumphant smile and heavy eyes, he will let Washington kiss his fingers and his hands and press his lips into the curve of his neck, and pull from his lungs a delighted breath and from his tongue a sound that is sin manifest. His hands will hold fast onto that narrow waist and trembling thighs as they part for him, and he will fit perfectly between them, and he will -

Washington blinks. Once, twice. Shifts subtly under the table, focuses all his energy on the man droning on and on across the table, and avoids the curious, knowing glare his impossible boy gives him.

“And so, General, I’m afraid it won’t be adequate payment. You’re asking to commandeer my best stream of income, and as I’m sure you know-”

The Baron speaks to him but his eyes flicker to Hamilton every so often, and Washington tells himself it’s nothing. Providence knows he’s had enough trouble keeping his eyes to himself tonight.

After the third hour, it becomes a struggle not to roll his eyes so violently he loses them somewhere in his head.

*

“He will yield, General.” Hamilton is so sure, leant against the little fireplace crackling in the corner of the study. His coat is folded neatly over the chair, and he presents a lithe gorgeous figure in his fitted shirt and breeches.

 _I want you to yield,_ Washington doesn’t say, conscious of Laurens milling about between the books. But Hamilton reads the little twitch pulling the corner of his mouth, and smiles. It’s the way his lips twist and the lines of his face come to life for the briefest second, like he’s sharing a secret. It never fails to take Washington’s breath away, even before he kissed the fever from those lips months ago.

“But of course. One can only hope he will yield _soon_.”

Laurens pokes his head around the bookshelves. “It’ll be the third day tomorrow, your Excellency. As long as we acquiesce to all the cows and sheep,” he mutters, and the Baron’s ridiculous demands hang like a particularly bland joke between them. Borrowing one of the man’s many farmhouses has been more difficult than pulling teeth.

“Laurens, it’s late. Retire, for we have another early day on the morrow.” The boy nods, turning to his friend expectantly, but Washington feels a little too selfish tonight. “Hamilton, I’ll need your services for an hour more.”

His boy nods indifferently, but Washington sees the little red blush that crawls up from under his uniform. Laurens excuses himself, and as soon as he closes the door, Hamilton seals the latch.

Washington remains seated but uncrosses his legs. His boy walks languidly towards him.

“Alexander.” His voice is low and throaty, and he relishes in the shudder that curves Hamilton’s spine.

“Need my services, your Excellency?” His words are quiet, almost diffident. He cuts the perfect picture of a shy young man at the behest of his superior. To be commanded and controlled. And then he sinks to his knees in a practiced motion, crawls with an arched back between Washington’s thighs and pushes them gently apart.

His mouth is too dry for words, but they are long past the need for words anyway. He has known from the start there is no taming his perfect, impossible boy.

With firm fingers he lifts Hamilton’s chin and slips his thumb along his bottom lip, pressing a finger into his mouth. Hamilton nuzzles into his touch, lets Washington tilt his face up for a long lingering kiss. He is gentler than he would like, but he can’t have his boy strutting between the corridors with bruised lips and a limp.

Instead, he lets deft fingers unlace his breeches, and bites his knuckles hard.

*

The third day of negotiations starts much the same. But this time they are in last night’s study, and Washington keeps his eyes and thoughts firmly detached of the armchair sitting innocently in the corner.

By evening, the papers have been drafted in Hamilton’s loopy print and proofed by Laurens and the Baron’s own lawyer. They all stand in the middle of the room, Laurens and Hamilton by his shoulders.

“Well,” the Baron smiles, all teeth. He’s a tall imposing man with disarming disinterested eyes that Washington has learnt is anything but, “I’m glad we could come to such an amicable agreement. I trust you appreciate the service I am doing for the good of the people.”

Washington offers a practiced smile. He’s too conscious of the heat emanating from Hamilton’s body beside him, too eager for the return to camp where he can have his boy in his arms again, in his bed without excuse.

“Of course, Baron. You have done us and the legacy of the Revolution a great service. Your country will always be indebted to you.” It’s smooth and impersonal, with the illusion of well-owed gratitude. Words written by his boy and practiced in front a looking glass for hours yet. Simple, to the point, _just the right side of reverence that rich, useless men yearn for,_ Hamilton had said.

The Baron’s eyes brighten. _My clever boy,_ Washington thinks.

“Now, if there’s nothing else, Baron…”

“No, but well, actually…” that shark smile again. Something tangles in the pit of Washington’s belly. “You must stay the night, of course.”

Washington shakes his head, powers the motion with as much contrite and self-reproach as he can manage from the creases around his eyes to the little practiced sigh. “I’m afraid we’ve but a long ride ahead, Baron. Camp-”

“Can wait a few hours, surely? I cannot have my guests leave on empty bellies, without supper or a night’s rest.”

Washington can almost hear Hamilton’s whisper in his ear, _do not irk a man who believes he gives you the world, Sir. Little men must feel big if we’re to snatch their land on amicable terms._

“Of course.” He gives in after a moment of apparent contemplation. They can’t afford to deny the man anything. “Thank you for your generosity.” Hamilton deflates unnoticeably beside him, tension bleeding from his body as if he expected his general to deny the request. Washington doesn’t quite smile, but it’s close. Instead he nods to take his leave, but -

“Just.” _Providence, what now?_ “One more thing.”

The Baron’s smile is knowing and terrible, and a stone sinks down Washington’s throat.

They can’t afford to deny the man anything.

He turns his gaze over Washington’s shoulder, eyes focused in all their intensity on Hamilton.

Yet he speaks to Washington all the same. “You understand, General, in these difficult times…” He steps from Washington to the boy, _looming._ The general can hardly push him back.

The Baron is a foot away from Hamilton, who blinks up at the man in innocent confusion, dark eyes questioning. The other man says nothing. He lifts a hand to the boy’s face.

A fire licks at Washington’s insides, burning and fierce. Fists hard by his sides, breath robbed from his body. The world becomes a little distanced, as if a a firm invisible partition separated Washington from reality. The Baron is touching his boy. The Baron is _touching his boy._

Hamilton hasn’t moved. The Baron inches closer, until they are chest to chest. “I’ve been… lonely.” Hamilton pales, breathless, and the blood rushing from his face leaves him looking cold and sick. “I’d like your boy for the night.”

Washington does not remember speaking, does not feel himself speaking, and his words are loud in a voice that isn’t quite his.

They can’t afford to deny the man anything, but Washington will burn before he gives him _this._

“Release Lieutenant Hamilton this instance, Baron von Heim.”

The boy glances at him while the Baron strokes long fingers along his cheek, eyes fixated on the lips Hamilton has bitten rose red. Von Heim laughs good naturedly, “I don’t mind if you’ve already broken him in, General.”

Washington is moving but he hasn’t told his body what to do.

And yet, he’s across the room with the Baron’s wrist in his hand. He twists those filthy fingers from _his_ boy’s cheek, twists that filthy touch from _his_ boy’s body, twists and twists and _twists_ until the Baron is on his knees, clawing at Washington’s hands, pleas and screams snatched hot and raw from his throat, tears gathering around his eyes. Washington twists and twists and once he breaks this wrist, the Baron will never touch _his_ boy again –

“General. General.” The sounds of the room are muted, all he hears are those pathetic pleas. “General _Washington_!”

He lets go, seared. Washington looks at his fingers as if expecting to see them blackened. Washington looks at the man sobbing like a child at his feet. Washington looks at _Hamilton_ – eyes livid and dazed and _disappointed._

 _Oh Providence_ , he thinks, somewhere far in his mind, _what have I done?_

*

His quarters are blanketed by an eerie silence.

Washington doesn’t dare meet his eyes. He can’t look at the boy at all. Cowardice draws him to the window, back to Hamilton.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Of course he’s is furious. He isn’t yelling but there’s no space between his words. They are long and stretch languidly between them, claws tearing painfully into the sides of Washington’s head. “Sir, General, _George,_ what the _fuck_ were you thinking?”

Washington turns. His boy is white with anger, teeth pressed into a hard grind, breaths sharp and fast. Washington takes a long, long breath and walks towards the boy, walks in leisurely strides until he’s up against Hamilton and the boy has no choice but to shift until his back is pressed hard against the door.

The boy tilts his chin defiantly, lips sealed. Washington swoops down and catches him in a plundering kiss, tongue commandeering as he licks into Hamilton’s mouth. Hamilton opens submissively for him, thin fingers scrambling to hold the unyielding General steadfast against his body. Washington kisses the breath from the boy’s lungs, kisses bruises onto the boy’s lips, presses his mouth down the line of his jaw and latches onto the smooth skin of his neck.

Hamilton denies him nothing, curling his hands up onto Washington’s shoulders. Until Washington sucks a blossoming purple bruise into his neck, until he _marks_ him viciously, until Hamilton whimpers deliciously into his ear, a sound he will welcome in his most vivid dream.

When he finally releases the boy, Hamilton pushes their foreheads together.

“You’re _mine_ ,” Washington whispers. “ _My_ boy. _My_ Alexander.”

Hamilton looks like he might cry. “Always, you foolish old man.” A quick sweet kiss. “As you are _mine_. That doesn’t mean you can go around incapacitating our assets.”

The laugh trembles, and Washington can’t help joining him. “You should have let me break his wrist.”

Hamilton really rolls his eyes now, “I thought I was supposed to be the rash one, Sir?”

“Mmm,” he lets the boy press his face into his chest, ducks to kiss the top of his head the way he loves so. “This is going to take a lot of explaining, isn’t it?”

Hamilton doesn’t pull back, talking into Washington’s coat. The words are warm and soft, travelling through the layers of clothes to rest on his skin. “It’s a good thing damage control has always been my forte.” He pulls away with evident difficulty. “I just have to figure out what to tell John.”

Laurens. Right. Hamilton’s closest friend, Hamilton’s brother in arms, Hamilton’s confidante. For a real moment, Washington wants to sink into the ground.

Hamilton sees the look. “Oh don’t be dramatic.” He clears his throat, “It’ll be okay, I’m sure,” he placates, sounding wholeheartedly and utterly unsure.

*

That night, he receives a vintage red with a silvery ribbon coiled around its long neck. The note reads:

_General, please do not think me discourteous. I have the utmost respect for another gentleman’s possessions._

It takes Hamilton’s hand to stop him from smashing the bottle against the wall into a thousand opaque shards.

*

They obtain the farmhouse on agreeable terms after only three days. The negotiations, on paper, have been an overwhelming success.

On the ride back to camp, Laurens does not spare Washington a glance. His body is taught and tense and stiff, and he rides a good distance away.

He glances at Hamilton beside him, cravat tucked high and tight around his neck. His boy is petting Daisy absentmindedly as he rides. Washington wonders if he’s thinking about Buttercup at all.

“Are you okay Son?” The words are quiet, but in the clear meadow they travel far enough.

Hamilton reaches to readjust the cravat around his throat, smiling with his head ducked, “Yes Sir.” His eyes are warm, brightened by the sun cutting lines of gold on his face. “I’m wonderful.”

Washington smiles, satisfied.


End file.
